Protected
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: A terrible thing happens to Diaval, leaving him crippled in not one way, but two. And Maleficent doesn't know if even a power such as hers can fix him. Diavicent/Maleval. M for a lime in the second chapter.
1. Chapter 1

He'd sworn himself into service. He was to be her wings. And, though she never told him, that day she vowed to protect him. No harm would come to him as long as she was there; she vowed to kill any that dared to challenge it. No winged creature deserved to be wingless. No one deserved to have their freedom stolen as she had. His wings were to be defended as her own. This was her silent promise to him. And Maleficent was never known for breaking her promises, even if those promised had betrayed her. She was many things, but she was not dishonest.

Sixteen years later, her unspoken vow had not been changed. On the morn, Diaval flapped down from his nest down to hers. He cawed at her. Usually, his mistress was awake at dawn, and she had to wait for him to rise so they could go fly together through the orangey sky, patrolling all the forests and magical places of the moors. But not this morning; this morning, she was curled into herself in a ball of shivers. Worry pierced his chest sharply. He lowered himself next to her and pressed his wing against her face. She was burning with fever. He squawked loudly, rousing her.

"Yes, Diaval. I know I am sick." He moved out of her way as she pushed herself up into a seated position. He landed on her right knee and cawed at her. She smiled and stroked his feathers. "You needn't worry yourself. I'll be fine in a few hours." He tilted his head at her and blinked his keen, beady eyes. She told him not to worry. He therefor shouldn't worry. But he couldn't keep it from bubbling up in his chest like hot lava bubbles within a volcano, threatening to spill out. "You go do whatever it is normal ravens do."

He cawed at her again and took to the air, though he had absolutely no intention of doing whatever it was normal ravens did. He swooped through the cool dawn air, the chill tingling in his feathers, as he headed to the nest of the three pixies. Upon arrival, he noted that the three were gone, but close by; he could hear Thistlewit and Flittle arguing over something Knotgrass had said. He dug his talons into the tree branch with anger; though he would never admit it, he despised the three with such an utter hatred that he found it hard to speak with them. They had made his life very difficult over the past sixteen years; he was required to raise a child of a different species while serving his mistress at the same time. If they wouldn't have been such dunderheads, perhaps he wouldn't have been so sleep-deprived.

But his anger was not the reason he was here. He was here to find a vial with a cork, or any other kind of container that could be closed. If he was to deliver water to Maleficent, he would have to be able to both open and close the container with his beak and talons. And, fortunately, in the corner of the nest that he assumed was Knotgrass's, he saw it. The clear crystal was sparkling in the dawn light. He snatched it up into his talons and ducked around some trees. He was headed to the river. Giving several joyous caws, he landed by the riverside.

With spring, the water was flowing quickly from snowmelt. Diaval was a bit frightened at being so close to the rushing current, but tried to chase away his fear. He was doing something for his mistress, after all. Plus, he'd seen too many scary things to be frightened of water. Water was a trivial thing, needed for anyone's survival. He reached down with the vial caught in his talon and began to fill it up. The trolls had slipped his mind. He heard a slight snicker and barely had time to turn his head before the slime ball collided with his side. With a squawk of terror, he flopped into the rushing currents back first.

He flapped his wings uselessly, crying out whenever he surfaced. The undertow of the river kept pulling him beneath the raging torrent. Boulders protruded and slammed into him. When he came up again and sucked in a breath, ripples of pain went through his chest. He was dragged beneath the angry river again. He flapped his wings, trying his best to surface. He struck a rock. The sound of his left wing crackling met his ears even under the water, and the pain came next. It was agony, a fire erupting through his entire body. He tried to flap his right wing, tried to drag himself upward for air. He needed to breathe. His lungs burned a need for oxygen.

As he was dragged to the surface once more, he sucked in a deep breath. He cawed loudly, praying someone—anyone, the pixies, Maleficent, a troll—would hear him and come help. Another boulder slammed into him, bending his right wing back at an impossible angle. The next thing he struck was his head against a rock, and he spiraled into a blackness rich and deep.

* * *

Maleficent had recovered from her fever by nightfall, but with its leaving came a new worry. Diaval had not returned since the morning, when she had sent him off to actually be a bird for once. A cool breeze was blowing in. It was a reminder of the winter that had just left them, and Maleficent guessed that, with the clouds darkening overhead, they were to be reminded much more strongly. She wanted him near in case a storm blew in. Though she had no doubt that he could take care of himself, his presence was a comfort to her—she would never admit that to him, though.

"Diaval," she called as she ventured through the trees. Something felt amiss in her chest; she somehow knew that the sky was not the right place to search for her companion. "Diaval!" The wind picked up, carrying her voice away. "Diaval!" She wandered to the riverside. The water was as black as the night surrounding her. Her wings extended for a moment, preparing to fly across the river, but a dark shape caught her eye. "Diaval!" Immediately she dropped to her knees, scooping the nearly drowned raven into her arms. His wings were mangled, his breath barely coming in slow, shallow movements. Snow began to drift down around them.

She lay him down, whispering hurriedly, "Into a man." His form began to shift in a yellow light. His only sign of life was a sound of pain. He didn't have the strength to moan; it came out as a high-pitched whine. "Diaval, can you hear me?" He grunted. She took that as a yes. She pulled his robe away and let her gentle fingers prod at his broken ribs. She used a healing spell, and the light danced from her fingers brightly. His skin was cool to the touch. She pulled off her cloak and wrapped him in it. Her eyes flicked to his arms, but the injuries to his wings had not traveled across his forms. The snow came down harder. She didn't dare change his forms again for fear of damaging him more. Her slender arms slipped around him. Gods, but he was heavy. Her wings strained under his extra weight. Boyhood Stefan was nowhere near as cumbersome as Diaval's form. He was dead weight in her arms. She struggled to push that thought away as she landed in her nest.

It was painfully cold, but her main concern was to dry Diaval off before it got any colder. She tried her best to dry him, but he was so cold. His breaths were shallow, his skin a sickly pale. "Diaval," she whispered, stroking his wet hair and feathers intermixed. "Diaval, look at me. Please." Her eyes stared blankly at his lids.

He could register pain. Cold was overriding his senses. He was very cold. And there were soft touches, soft caresses to his skin. He liked those, those gentle brushes of his skin, accompanied by a voice he could only identify as his mistress's. She was speaking to him. She wanted him to look at her. He slid his eyes open. He felt the cool air meet his eyeballs. But no light was shed on his pupils. He could not see her. "Mmm…" He felt like he was falling. Why couldn't he see? He thrashed for a hold on something. "Mmmuh!"

Her grasp on him tightened. "Diaval! Diaval, calm down!"

He sucked in a deep breath. His chest gave a painful twinge. He grabbed ahold of something warm. It felt like an arm. "Muh-Mistress…" he breathed. "Mistress," he repeated. "I can't—cuh-can't see." His teeth chattered. He was so cold.

"Diaval, hush." Her arms curled tighter around him. She barely registered what he was saying.

"I can't suh-see!" he repeated, panic growing.

Her voice quieted. "You can't see." Her hands pressed into his cheeks. He could feel her breath on his face, knew that she was staring directly into his black human eyes. She pressed her fingers to his eyelids. She could feel the twitching muscles and nerves beneath them. All signs told that he should be able to see. Except he couldn't. His clattering jaw brought her back to reality. The chill was biting into her skin, as well. "We can't worry about it right now. You need to warm up." She pulled her cloak tighter about him.

He grappled at air for a moment. Maleficent sucked in a breath. She did not like being touched. He knew that. But she understood his weakness. She let him grab on to her wrist. "Muh-Mistress, I'm sorry."

"You've done nothing wrong, Diaval." Her hand warmed his cheek. He leaned into the warmth impulsively. She smelled safe. He had never noticed her scent before.

A very cold substance was landing in his hair. "Ih-is it snowing?" he asked in a trembling, shy tone. He was utterly helpless.

"Yes." She shifted closer to him.

He leaned into her warmth. "Thank you." He was not mindless of her strong dislike toward being touched. But he _needed_ to touch her, to know she was near him and that she would not leave without telling him. He could feel her pulse beneath her skin.

She swallowed hard. She still had to look at his wings. His wings that were mangled and destroyed, the same wings that she had sworn herself to protect. She didn't know if he knew his own condition. "Your wings, Diaval." His grasp on her arm tightened. "They were badly hurt." He sucked in a sharp breath, gradually releasing it as she did not continue. He loosened his grip on her wrist, almost releasing it completely. "I am sorry." _I failed you_. She took her wrist from him and traced the scars around his eyes. His sightless eyes reflected deep thought. She decided to distract him. "Where did you get your scars?"

He cleared his throat. It was thick and heavy with restrained tears. He touched the one on his left eye. "I…This one was from an angry sparrow. And this one," he continued, touching the opposite, "was a buzzard. I got too close to his meal."

"And these?" Her warm fingers trailed over his collar bones, making his skin tingle and prickle. He felt odd, her touching him and seeing him, but him not seeing her.

His hand brushed hers as he traced over them too. "Most of these were from a barn cat that nearly killed me when I tried to snatch a meat pie." He gave a slight smile, as though the memory were somehow fond to him. It was, in a way. In the memory, he was able to see and fly. Now he could do neither. "But this one was from a man. I took shelter in the rafters of his barn, but he didn't like that. And…well, he had a remarkably good aim with a pitchfork." He yawned. "Mistress, I am tired."

"You cannot sleep while it is this cold." She knew he had more scars. She'd seen them while he was bathing in the summer. Her desire had not been to spy on him, but his back had been turned, and, well, she had only seen a naked man before once in her life—when she'd first changed him. But he knew nothing of this, and she did not wish to provoke questions from him. "Tell me a story, Diaval." If he was talking, he was not sleeping.

He blinked blearily. "A story, mistress?"

"What is it like to grow up as a raven?"

He yawned. "Very similar to growing up like a fairy, I would think. Except fairies have clearer emotions and more intelligent thoughts."

"I think you're clever, Diaval."

"Clearly not clever enough. I was fool enough to near the river."

She wished to know what he was doing by the river, but did not ask. She did not want to upset him anymore than he had already been upset. "What was your family like?"

"My family? Oh, right." He yawned again. "My siblings all died before I knew their names. My mother was too small to keep us all alive, so she instead nurtured me. Lucky me, I guess. And lucky you."

"Oh?" He could feel her eyebrow being raised at him.

"Well, I don't see any other ravens going around letting themselves be turned into dragons, do you?" He paused, thinking that sounded harsh. "I jest, mistress. The dragon was very cool. I wish I could have experienced it with less spears, chains, fire, and angry men." A strong wind gusted through their nest, spraying the two of them in the face with icy crystals. He grabbed tightly on to something—a leg? No, a thigh. He hoped. Swallowing hard, he lessened his grip on her thigh (_?_) and curled his arms around himself. "I'm sorry, mistress." He shivered.

Her warm, feathery wing extended in a ruffling sound and curled around him. "It's fine, Diaval." She could sense his need to be touched, his desire to be assured that he was not alone. She carefully rested her hand on top of his, letting their fingers curl together.

"Mistress?" Thinking he did not like it, she tried to pull away, but he squeezed her tightly. "Thank you." Her hand was warm to him, warm like the air around them was turning. The snow drifted into a cool rain and gradually faded altogether. By the time he had fallen asleep, it was only slightly chilly, not frigid. His head rested on her chest, their fingers still entwined.

She carefully extricated her hand and pressed her hands to his forehead. She knew no magic to restore sight, but she would not go down without a fight. She could mend his shattered ribs; fixing his eyes would be no problem. Except for the fact that she suspected the problem wasn't in his eyes. She had an inkling that it was in his brain, that he'd damaged something when he knocked his head against a rock. _I will try and try until he can see again_. She thought again of the mess that his wings were in. _I will try and try until he can fly again._ That was her vow to him, though he knew nothing of it. She would not fail him. She would protect him.

Her fingers noted that his skin had returned to a relatively normal temperature, which was a relief in more than one way. She pulled her cloak away from him and tucked it about her own shoulders. Possessiveness was not a quality exclusive to ravens. Then she bent over him again, pressing her palms to his cheeks. She muttered any charm she could think up or make up. Each time, magic slid into his head. She could only pray that she was doing more good than harm.

By noon the next day, her servant was stirring. "Mistress…" He yawned loudly, stretched, and rubbed his eyelids. They flicked open. "Oh, dear god." He reached to shield his eyes from the bright light she was proffering on the tip of her finger.

She pulled her finger away. "You can see?"

He blinked rapidly. "It's all gray and hazy, but yeah. Kinda." He rubbed his eyelids with his fists.

She pulled his hands away. "Quit, let me see." He cringed back and went awkwardly stiff as she peeled his eyes wide one at a time. "Hmm…Keep them closed." Her fingertips pressed into his temples, an uncomfortable sensation went through his head. He ground his teeth against it; it felt as though his very memories were being tugged freely from his head. "There, open them now. Did that fix anything?"

He blinked his eyes open again. "Yes." The images were much clearer, perhaps sharper than even before the accident. "It's all black and white." She raised her hands to his head again, but he shook his head rapidly. "No, mistress, it's fine. Crystal clear. Really."

She hesitated. "I want to do all I can. You won't be able to hunt as well."

It was his turn to pause, trying to think of a way to give his quiet admission. "You have always provided for me when I was unable to provide for myself. I trust that you will continue." He ruffled his hair, fondly touching the feathers intermixed with his black locks. "Mistress…" He swallowed hard. "Is there anything you can do for my wings?" It was not his place to question how the injuries did not transfer from his wings to his arms. All he wished to do was fly again.

"I would rather wait until I can put you to sleep. If…anything can be done, it will be painful."

He lowered his head. "Alright." It was not alright, nothing about it was alright. She could sense that. She knew. She understood. She knew the pain of having freedom stolen.

She didn't dare meet his eyes. "I would take it all back if I knew this would happen," she whispered. She would have. For any sort of creature with wings, it was better to live a short life of flight than a long life of none. She would never have wished winglessness on any creature born to fly, and especially not her beloved friend, the handsome raven.

It was quite a long while before he replied, "I wouldn't, mistress." He curled his arms about himself. His black eyes were keen as ever. "I have learned many things as a man. Things that animals do not understand. Commitment, affection, devotion. Normal animals do not know these things, and…" The next words were hard for him to muster. "…And I would rather never fly again than to never know these things."

"Is that the truth?"

"I think so. I'm not certain, though."

His mistress leaned her head on the trunk. "I will do anything to save your wings, Diaval. I swear on it. You _will_ fly again." And she prayed that she had not just made another dishonest promise.

* * *

The raven was kept asleep by her yellow magic. She stretched out his left wing first; it seemed to have taken the lesser amount of damage. Bone fragments stuck out in two places, and several important feathers were missing. She pinched the bones together, but couldn't get them set straight. If she couldn't set them, healing them was useless. _I need to do this. I need to do this for him. I promised_. She pinched at them again, trying and failing to keep them together. Something important was missing. Finally, she conceded that maybe he could fly with a slightly crooked wing. Diaval was no fool of a raven; he was intelligent, maybe even wise in some ways that he shouldn't be. He would learn. And if he couldn't, she would (she swallowed hard at this thought) do her best to re-break it and try again.

Her fingers transferred over to his other wing. Her face immediately curled downward at it. The tip—bone, feather, all—was missing, completely broken off. It was bent nearly to the point of a human elbow. _Oh, Diaval_. Unbidden, a single tear slipped down her face. The left wing had been bad, but this one was completely hopeless. She could not replace what had been ripped away from him. Her fingers straightened the wing as best as she could and healed it, covering the wound. _He's a bird with clipped wings. Nothing more than a common house-pet._ After a few moments of stroking his glossy fingers, she gradually began to lift the spell that put him asleep. _Will he ever forgive me?_

His black eyes slid open, beady and clever with a bit of light reflected in them. The first thing he recognized was no pain. There was no pain. Was he fixed? If he was not fixed, then he would be in pain, correct? Jolting upright at this thought, he immediately spread his wings. His eyes pinpointed on his mistress's shoulder. He flapped them. Then there was the pain; it burst through his incorrectly-healed bones, flashing through his body with such a shock that he squawked. Panic overtook his raven's brain, and he flopped uselessly, as though he could escape it.

Pale hands wrapped around him, stilling him. His wings gave a faint ache, but didn't hurt if he didn't move them. "Diaval, I'm sorry." Her voice cracked. A tear slipped down her cheek. "I'm so sorry."

Then it hit him, strong and forceful wave of reality—he would never fly again. He would never again zip through the open skies, would never again do a far-away mission for his mistress. He would never rest on Aurora's windowsill from dusk till dawn and return to the moors at morn to ease his mistress's worry. The reality of it washed over him, and he bent over with his wings tucked at his side. He was glad that ravens could not cry, for, if he were human, he would have been sobbing. Her tear dripped off of her face and landed on his head. He peered up at her quizzically. He was the one losing. He was the one whose freedom was being stolen away, so soon after he'd helped return hers.

She placed him in her lap and leaned her head against the tree. Her fingers absently stroked his glossy plumage. "Pretty bird," she whispered. He gave the quiet purr of satisfaction that her slender, pale digits always managed to elicit from him; though he was anything but happy, she could still soothe him into this wonderful peace with a simple touch. He blinked up at her sleepily. He wanted to be a man. He wanted to feel the emotions that he knew would be magnified by a human mind. And as she whispered, "Into a man," and his form lengthened, his head in her lap, he began to sob. The weight of it all roared about him like a flood was overcoming his tree, and he could neither swim nor fly into freedom. He sobbed hopelessly into her gown. Her arms gingerly pulled him into something akin to a hug, and his returned around her waist tightly as the sorrow sank into his flesh.

The pieces of his shattered world did not come together, not in his heart, not in his mind. But he managed to pull together enough pieces to stop bawling and to gently disentangle himself from his mistress's grasp. He glanced back up at her face. Twin tears rolled down her cheeks. "No, mistress, don't." He wiped them away with his thumbs without a thought. "Don't cry." He hated her tears. He had seen them before, though the sight was rare. He did not like seeing them. They hurt a part of his insides, the tender part that still owed his whole life to her. He despised her tears and wished he never had to see them.

She leaned away from his touch. She would not tell him about her promise. She didn't want to upset him further. It hurt her badly enough. "I must cry, Diaval." She let that rest a moment before continuing, "They were my wings, too. _ You_ were my wings." She tried to hold in another tear, reluctant to hurt him any more than he was already hurt.

"I cannot be your wings any longer, mistress," he murmured to her. "I'm sorry." As though he was the one that should be apologizing. He slowly slid away from her, not wanting to crowd her personal space.

_No, Diaval. I am the one who is sorry_. She reached to touch him again. She longed for his touch. Then, seeing the slight confusion in his black eyes, she drew away from him. "I will be your wings now, Diaval."

"Mistress, you don't have to. I will be…" Fine? He would definitely not be fine. He would not be happy about this, not ever. But he didn't want to put her out, and, probably a greater reason, he was scared. He didn't wish to be in the air without his wings. The tree was one thing; the tree was home. But in the sky? So far away from the ground that to slip would be certain death? He feared it. He feared death more than he feared flightlessness. "I would be afraid to leave the ground without the means to catch myself."

She nodded quietly. "Yes. That is…understandable." Her eyes turned to the sky. It was darkening. She wished to fly, but did not want to leave him. He deserved so much more than to be abandoned in this tree. He was the one whom she had failed. It was all she should do to stay with him, but yet she could not force herself to do so.

"Mistress, you are not obligated to stay with me." His keen eyes watched hers drift to the evening sky. "I will be quite alright by myself." He tilted his head at her thoughtfully. Her eyes, he knew, were such a peculiar shade of green. Even in his current mostly color-blind state, they flashed and glittered brightly like gems. "You have very pretty eyes, mistress." He had not meant to say that aloud, but words were not to be retracted.

Her lips lifted in the slightest, but her eyes were still troubled. "Thank you, Diaval." And, though her every synapse told her to stay with him, she flew away, into the dark night. She could feel his dark eyes on her long after she knew he was out of his sight.

* * *

When she returned, the stars were high in the sky, but Diaval was not in her nest. Immediately, fear fluttered alive in her chest. _He's gone and offed himself!_ "Diaval!" she shouted into the darkness. That was when a heap of man at the base of the tree caught her attention. Panic awakened within her. "Diaval!" She dropped down to him and touched his cheeks.

His eyes lazily dragged themselves open. "Mis'ress?" he slurred, speech thick with sleep. He pulled himself up. "Wha's wrong?" He rubbed his eyes.

She scanned over him quickly. He was uninjured. He had come to the ground of his own accord and had fallen asleep. "Why are you on the ground, Diaval?"

"S'not safe, mistress." He yawned. "No wings. Don't sleep in a tree if I can't keep myself from falling."

She muttered, "Silly bird," under her breath and tried to decide what to do with him. The forest floor was unsafe for him, and she would also venture to say quite uncomfortable. She couldn't force him to stay in a tree, could she? She could. She was his mistress, after all. "Diaval, get up. Back up the tree."

His eyes flashed. He was awakening more thoroughly. "Mistress, I—"

"Did I ask if it suits your fancy?" She almost cringed at her own voice. "Up the tree! That's an order!"

Another look came over his face; he appeared to be perplexed by her sudden shift in mood. He obediently turned and shuffled back up the tree with lean, strong limbs, though she stayed near to catch him if he slipped. Anger burbled up in his chest. He tried to quell it. "Mistress, I am not a child. You needn't look after me like I am," he muttered. His frustration was much deeper than that. He had climbed this tree hundreds of times before, and though he had certainly flown atop it many more, he had not lost his adeptness or skill with his limbs. He dragged himself into the nest.

Her eyes glittered with emotion. He wanted to see their green sharpness again. Instead, he was confined to this world of gray. She refused to look at him. _I promised him. I failed him_. And, though she knew that his confusion was based off of the fact that he knew nothing about her vow, she could not understand how he expected her not to grieve as well. "You are my closest friend. I wish nothing bad toward you." Her admittance was quiet, almost to the point of shyness. She kept her eyes away from him.

"Mistress, I…" But he did not know what to say to that. He stared at the ground far below. "Do I have to sleep up here?"

"It's dangerous down there."

"I won't be concerned about those dangers if I tumble out of this tree and break my neck," he replied drily.

"I would never let that happen."

"Mistress, in all due respect, you have to sleep, too." He yawned, as if proving his point.

She bit the inside of her cheek. What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do? She was helpless to fix him. She was powerless against his ailment. She was useless. She understood this. "Alright. You can sleep on the ground."

He scrambled for a foot-hold on the tree trunk and silently lowered himself to the ground. He curled into a ball there. She watched him carefully, her eyes flashing with each breath he took until his breaths were evened out in a deep slumber. Then she descended the tree as well, landing softly beside him. She would not let anything hurt him, and if that meant sleeping on the soil like a common man, she would do it. Her mind deepened into sleep while she tried to think of anything she wouldn't do to return his wings to him.

* * *

"Mistress, fairies don't sleep on the ground." Diaval was exasperated. Why was she guarding him like he was a careless child?

"Nor do birds!" She glared at him. Why couldn't he understand that she wanted not only to protect him, but also to simply be near him?

He crossed his arms and stared at the ground. "Men do."

She frowned at him. "You are no man, Diaval." She touched his cheek. "Remember that." She cleared her throat. "And men do not sleep on the ground. They have luscious beds within their homes to return to after a long day of work or play." She pulled her hand away from his face.

When their skin brushed, he wanted to lean into the embrace, but he restrained himself. Her hand pulled away. He wished it would stay longer. "I have no desire to move into a man's house or sleep in a bed."

She sighed, unsure what to say to him. She reached back and began to braid her hair. Her hands went still when his took her dark locks from her. "Diaval, what are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm going to braid your hair, mistress. My fingers have to be good for something, don't they?"

She gave a slight smile, trying not to flinch at his tender touch. Touching was still new to her, and she wasn't completely sure she would ever completely adjust to it. "As long as you don't tie it in knots," she conceded. Her hands fell back into her lap. He gathered her silken hair into his hands and began to split it off into sections, leaving her to wonder where on earth he had learned to braid. "Diaval, how on earth did you learn to braid hair?"

"Mistress, when I wasn't off doing missions for you, I was watching you. I was always watching." He expertly slid one strand over the other. In minutes he was done, and, to her surprise, her hair was smooth and tied back with care, almost as though she'd done it herself.

"I suppose your skills are many, Diaval." She touched the back of her hair. "I have to go somewhere today. I trust that you'll be okay alone?"

He ground his teeth, trying to prevent himself from starting a spat about being a helpless child. "I think I'll go visit Aurora, mistress. You needn't worry for me."

Her eyes flashed. "Be careful around men, Diaval. They are strange beings, and they will not hesitate to reject someone who is different from them."

"I know, mistress. I will be back by nightfall." The morning air was still fresh and new around them. He would have time. He would have all the time in the world. But he knew that his time would not be wasted, for he had an idea. And, after all, it was always nice to see Aurora. He considered her his daughter almost as much as Maleficent did—well, perhaps not quite that much, as his attachments were primarily to his mistress, but he did have an immense affection for anyone who could soften her heart and return her wings.

"I will start searching if you don't return," she replied simply, and she took to the air. Diaval stared after her for several moments before struggling to his feet. He was heading toward the palace to visit the queen.

* * *

He hated walking across the farmlands to get to the kingdom. Very often the farmers would be out in the fields, and they would whisper to each other about him. On occasion they would throw things at him, for he was the witch's familiar. He was the raven turned man. He was the pest turned evil. And today it was no different.

He heard the first stone coming at him before he felt it connect with his left shoulder blade. It stung fiercely, but he didn't dare turn back to look at the farmer who had thrown it. He flicked his hood up on his robe and ducked his head, hoping to prevent the stones from striking his skull bloody. The rocks were flung at him from both sides; he had more than one attacker. The whispers of "evil" and "witch" and "familiar" were loud enough to be heard clearly, but he kept walking until he was safer in the city.

People crowded left and right, fluttering about him, and his black-and-white vision made it harder to identify one form from another. _Perhaps I should let mistress try again. Or perhaps not_. He remembered what he had come here for, and headed toward the castle.

No one had ever told a raven that common men were denied entrance at places where esteemed members of society held residence, so it was quite a shock for Diaval when blades of iron and steel were pushed at his face. He went deathly still. Iron could not harm him, but its stench brought him to fear naturally. "Halt!" cried a voice of a man from behind an iron mask. "What brings a commoner entreating entrance at the castle of Queen Aurora?"

Panic overtook his chest. Birds, being creatures of flight, were meant to flee in the sight of danger, and without his mistress anchoring him there, Diaval was no different. He turned to flee, but a foot caught his, bringing him to the ground. He was kicked over onto his back. His arms flashed up to cover his face, but not quickly enough; a fist landed in his right eye. Another body part, presumably a leg, connected with his side. The air gusted out of his lungs. Something—an elbow?—caught his jaw. He grunted and tried to curl up into himself, trying to cry out for his mistress, until—

"Stop! Stop! Guards, release him!" Aurora's voice. The guards fell away from him one by one while he struggled to determine which way was up. He didn't need to; the queen grabbed his arm, hauled him to his feet, and gave him a hug. "I'm sorry, Diaval, are you alright?"

"Fine," he grated. He told himself that he was definitely not going to be coming here alone again. "Apparently men can't just fly to the queen's window and peck to be let in."

She gave her musical laugh. "No, they can't. I'm sorry. I told them all to never harass Maleficent, but I never would have imagined that you'd come alone…well, not like this, anyway." She pushed him away, holding him at a distance to admire him. "Is everything alright? Where's godmother?"

"Yes, I…" Everything was certainly not alright. At least, not with him. But she wouldn't care to hear about that, would she? She would care only about Maleficent and the way she was being affected by his troubles. "Everything's fine," he lied. "Mistress is out running some errands, but she gave me the day off, so I came to visit."

"Oh." He couldn't help noticing how her face fell a bit. Then her expression brightened. She grabbed ahold of his hand and dragged him away. "Do you need anything? The cooks probably have some snacks fixed. Or I could show you my room! There are so many nice things here, Diaval, you'd never guess!" She hauled him through the parlor, where the rubble of the pillars he'd knocked over as a dragon still remained.

He smiled and laughed and chased after her in spite of himself and his soreness over being brutally attacked twice on his way here. She dragged him up some stairs to the royal bedchambers. Then she promptly pushed him into a plush oversized chair and called a maid for some tea and crumpets.

He cleared his throat. "Aurora, I did come to ask for something."

"Anything, Diaval! I mean, within reason. I can't give you immortality."

"I am not seeking immortality." He smiled. "But I could use a hair brush. Would you happen to have an extra?"

"A hair brush, Diaval?" She raised an eyebrow at him. Then she stood and went to get one. "Does godmother need one?"

"Not at all. It is a gift for her." He would not disclose to her that he had braided her godmother's hair this morning. Some things were none of the queen's business, no matter how fond he or his mistress was of her. "Also…Aurora, can you read? And write?"

She came from what he presumed was the restroom with a hair brush. She handed it to him. "Yes, yes. Can't you?"

"Most birds aren't literate, your Majesty. I am not an exception." He was a bit ashamed at this revelation; though he had picked up a few letters from the commoners down in the market, he was almost completely illiterate.

Suddenly Aurora was fleeing the room again. When she came bustling back, her arms were filled with parchment and inkwells and quills. He tried not to look at the quills distastefully, as many of them were black as a crow's feather. He had an inkling that there was a greater purpose for farmers killing ravens besides them being pest birds. The queen settled all the papers out on a desk and began to talk. The words that spilled out of her mouth were quick and hard to comprehend; he had to move nearer to her to understand them at all. He listened closely for hours, nodding and responding when appropriate, and squeezing a quill until his hand was white-knuckled and sore. When he glanced outside, though, the sky was darkening.

"Oh! Aurora—your Majesty—I must go! I promised mistress I would be back by nightfall!" He stumbled back away from the desk.

She gave him a piece of parchment with all the letters of the alphabet on them, the uppercase and the lowercase. Twenty-six of them! Diaval would never have imagined that there were twenty-six letters. There were actually fifty-two, he mused, if the uppercase and lowercase were considered different letters altogether. He folded up the paper and tucked it into his robes. "Be careful traveling, Diaval. Come again soon! And bring Maleficent sometime, too!" She waved to him cheerily.

He doubted that his mistress would ever come very near here ever again unless she was forced to; the place reeked of iron and steel, of weapons that would remain no matter how gentle-natured the queen was. He began to hurry home.

By the time he passed the farmer fields, most of them had headed into their homes. Only a few children remained out playing, and they cringed away when they saw him, not yet possessing the hatred that was in the hearts of their fathers. He fled across the fields quickly, not wishing to draw attention to himself, and ran back to the tree line of the moors. He scarcely had time to enter when his mistress landed before him. "What happened to you?" she whispered.

He remembered the beating he had taken earlier. "I, um. See, men can't exactly fly in windows and peck to be let in, and—"

"Diaval, what happened?" she repeated.

"The guards weren't too keen on a stranger just running in. Apparently I was supposed to knock or something."

Her fingers touched his blackened eye. "Aurora should have told them about you." The swelling eased and the pain dissipated. "There is no excuse for this. I could kill those men."

"Mistress, they were doing their jobs. I could've been an axe-murderer for all they knew. Except an axe-murderer would probably have had an axe." He pulled the brush out of his pocket. "Mistress, this was what I went for." It was a pretty thing, colored silver with gold about it. There were golden hairs tangled in it, though not quite the color of Aurora's. Perhaps her mother's?

It was not for the fairy to guess; it was a gift to her, a borrowed gift regardless. "Thank you, Diaval. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

His ribs gave a faint ache; his shoulder still stung from the rocks hurled by the farmers. "Not badly," he equivocated, refusing to meet her gaze.

"Show me." Her eyes flashed at him.

"Mistress, it's too cold to take my shirt off. Can it please wait till the morning?" he asked softly, curling his arms around himself.

She narrowed her eyes. "Diaval, it's warm out. Are you okay?" She touched his shoulder. He grimaced. "You're hurt. Let me see." She lifted his shirt to see the dark bruise, as well as the many aligning his ribs. But what caught her attention the greatest was a large scar stretching from his top left corner down to his bottom right. She had seen it before, from a distance, but now she could see it in full view. She sucked in a breath. Not daring to speak on the scar, she touched each of the bruises, watching them disappear under her diligent fingers. "How many scars do you have, Diaval?" she asked finally.

"Too many." He crossed his arms. "I am tired, mistress. Can I please go to sleep now?"

"Of course. This way." She was leading him away from their normal tree. "I decided we needed a better place to sleep." She parted the greenery that led to a large, clear pond. There were two nests at the base of a tree, near some rocks right by the water's edge. "You were not the only one with an agenda today." She let a slight smile highlight her features.

Diaval breathed a breath of gratitude and sank into the nest that he deemed to be his, weariness dragging at him with a fierce touch. His legs ached and burned from walking. He had never had to walk so far before in his life. Though his eyes were closed, he could hear the rustling of leaves as she lay down in the nest beside him. "Diaval," she whispered.

"Yes?"

"What were you doing by the river, that day? Why were you there?"

He yawned. "A story for morning, perhaps, mistress?" His stomach was uncomfortable sharing with her what he'd been doing at the river that day—fetching water to help her fever.

"Yes," she agreed quietly. She slowly lay down next to him, watching his breaths rise and fall in sleep. There was a feeling in her chest that she had not felt since she was a girl. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to be near him. The yearning in her chest could only be stifled by the knowledge that he was a man and a man would hurt her. _He is not a man. He is a raven_. But she had turned him into a man, given him human emotions. With these emotions came a capacity for love, but there also came greed and ambition, things that he would inevitably put before her. _He is not Stefan_. At the name, she sat up and inhaled a sharp breath. She lay back down and rolled over quickly. She would not look at him. She would not think of him in that way. He was her servant and, more importantly, her best friend.

She turned over to look at him once more. Remembering something she had read in a magical book of charms, she placed her hand on his head. He did not stir. She let her magic spill into him with some murmured words. She could not fix his wings, but she could fix his eyes. It was the least she could do. Then, she rolled back over onto her side, facing away from him, and let herself fall asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I must say I wasn't expecting quite the reception I got on this story! Wow. Greater drama awaits you in this chapter, and especially in the next ;). Yes, there is a lime in this chapter. I have clearly marked it, though, just in case some of you don't want to read it. This was the first time I tried anything of the sort, so it is probably (definitely) quite poor in comparison to some of the other things you've read. Thanks for following this story, everyone!**

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When her eyes opened again, Diaval was tracing in the sand with his finger while admiring a piece of parchment. She pushed herself up. "What are you doing?" she asked, the previous night's question almost forgotten. She moved to sit next to him. On the parchment was the alphabet written in brilliant calligraphy. He was trying and failing to emulate it with his finger. "Are you learning to write?"

He nodded silently, folding the parchment back up. "I don't know why her handwriting is so fancy," he muttered, dusting over his failures on the ground next to him.

"Her?" Maleficent despised the possessiveness in her voice.

"Aurora. Who did you think I was referring to?"

"I don't know. You could have a whole slew of female friends in the kingdom that I would know nothing about," she teased.

He bent his head. "If I did, they wouldn't let the farmers throw stones at me, would they?" He was bitter. "I'm not a pest bird anymore. I don't take their crops. I don't hurt them."

"Perhaps you should."

"No good ever came from trying to get back at a man."

She touched the spot on his shoulder where she knew his scar began. "Where did you get your scar?"

"I thought you wanted to hear about the river."

"I want to hear about both. Your choice."

He sucked in a deep breath. He didn't want to anger her by speaking of the scar, but he didn't want to upset her by speaking of the river. "The man that threw the pitchfork at me…" He touched the mark on his chest that the man had given him. "I dove at his head. He grabbed me by my leg and pulled out a knife and…" He swallowed hard. "He slashed my back right open. I was lucky to make it back to my mother's nest that night."

"How long did it take? To heal, I mean."

"It was a few months before I could fly again. A few more after that before Mother dared let me leave." He laughed lightly. "She always said I was naïve enough to trust a man, innocent enough to steal from one, and foolish enough to love one. She was certain something horrible would become of me." He scratched at his head. "I suppose she was right. It was just a week later when I met you, after all."

She gave a slight smile. "Where is your mother now?"

He shrugged. "She saw me with you from the trees a few months after we met. She kicked me out of the nest, and I never saw her again." He didn't want to talk about that. He didn't want to upset her. "You fixed my eyes."

She nodded. "Of course. I couldn't stand the thought of you never being about to appreciate that brush's beauty." She cleared her throat, trying not to think of his mother. "About the river?" she prompted with her voice low.

He cleared his throat. He didn't want to tell her the truth. He didn't want to upset her. He didn't want her to blame herself like he knew she would do. He didn't want to tell her anything about it except that it was definitively not her fault. But he couldn't tell a lie, not even a lie of omission. It was not in the nature of an animal to be dishonest. "You were sick. You had a fever. I stole a vial from the pixies and went to the river to get you some water. But a troll hit me with a mud ball and knocked me in." There it was. The great and terrible truth.

She was silent for a long moment. "I am sorry, Diaval." What else was she to say?

"It was not your fault, mistress." He continued tracing in the sand. "You fixed my eyes," he murmured again. The colors were brighter than he remembered them. He looked to her face, to her eyes, which flashed and gleamed an emerald shade. He could remember, not too long ago, when his only wish was to see those eyes in color once again. She had granted his wish. He squinted down at the parchment. Now his only wish was for Aurora to have clearer, less curvy penmanship.

She nodded silently. Then, she carefully guided his hand through the strokes. "Like this," she whispered. She kept her hand straight, the letters capitalized, until DIAVAL was clearly scrawled onto the ground. "Your name." She released his hand, not missing the goose-bumps that had sprung up over his arm. "Problem?"

"No! No, mistress, of course not." He had the chills from her touch. He also had a headache from staring at the indiscernible parchment for so long. He folded it back up and put it in his nest. "Mistress, are we doing anything today?"

"Not in the foreseeable future, no. Do you wish to do something?"

He leaned back. "Not at all." He yawned and rolled onto his side, facing her. Her high cheekbones were illuminated by the morning light, her blood red lips curled into the slightest of smiles. He suddenly longed to run his hand over her cheek, to touch her lips. "Mistress…" He wanted to speak. But he did not know what to say.

"Yes, Diaval?"

He rolled onto his stomach. Butterflies were fluttering there. "Never mind."

"Tell me." Her eyes glittered, curiosity perked. She had never been nosy, but Diaval had never been secretive. She had to know what he was so hesitant to tell her.

The string of words flew from his mouth. "You're very pretty."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Thank you, Diaval." Her voice was short, snipped. He cringed internally. He could no longer fly away from her anger. He couldn't escape into the air at her whim. He rolled onto his other side, facing away from her. When her hand touched him, it was a surprise. He went rigidly still. It rested on his side, close to his stomach, where something was growing just below. He swallowed hard. "Be still." She began to rub his back with the heel of her hand. She was touching him. He tried to settle down, but uneasiness was alive in his belly.

"Mistress, are you alright?"

"Quite." Her voice had lost its edge, instead being soft and tender.

He peered at her with one coal black eye. "What's wrong?" He tried to sit up. "Mistress, what's the matter?"

She glanced away. "Nothing."

"Tell me."

She pulled her hand away from him and crossed them. "You're the matter."

He narrowed his eyes, eyebrows nearly touching in befuddlement. "Mistress?"

She didn't dare look at him. "You heard me. You are too charming." She ground her teeth. "You have charmed me, and I don't appreciate it." She didn't know why she was blaming him for capturing the miniscule bits left of her heart. It was not his fault that she was weak and easily fooled.

He stared at her, eyes confused and slightly hurt. "I am…sorry, mistress." He cautiously pulled himself up into a sitting position. His body tilted forward, almost without his permission, and his hand extended to touch her cheek. He traced her cheekbone with his thumb. She didn't pull away.

She leaned closer to him. She let herself revel in the feel of his breath on her face for a moment before reaching for his face. They slid together ever closer, each staring into the other's eyes, until their lips brushed. His breath whispered out, "Maleficent," in a way that it had not before, and her fingers cupped the back of his head in a way they had not ever before. The whole sensation was new and good and right, all perfect in beauty. Her tongue traced around his lips, entreating entrance, and he opened up. She explored his mouth until it left hers, trailing down her neck, where he suckled gently. She made soft mewling noises that turned on this foreign body of his. The noises, her scent, her taste of honey, it all added to a growing sensation between his legs. Her hands traveled up and down his body beneath his shirt. They traced over his scars and within moments she was gently kissing them. His shirt was completely discarded until he finally whispered sharply, "Mistress."

"Diaval." She blinked at him.

He cleared his throat. "I don't want…" He squeezed his arms around his chest. "I don't want to hurt you."

She touched his cheek tenderly. She wanted to tell him that he would never hurt her, not as badly as she had hurt him, but these things tended to backfire on her. Her lips pressed to his jawline. His breath tightened in his chest. She gave a breathless laugh. "Loosen up!" Her hand scooped out water from the pool and splashed him.

He blinked at her in shock. "Look who's talking!" he shot back. He splashed her back and reached for his shirt, tugging it on. A force slammed into him, pushing him into the pool. He cried out until it gargled into water. For a moment, he floundered in the shallow water before finding his feet beneath him. He stood and gasped for breath. Though he could feel the stillness of the pool around him, the water dribbling about him was enough to chase him toward bad memories. His feet stumbled out of the water. Overtaken by fear, he crawled toward the tree trunk and leaned there. "That was mean," he muttered in juvenility.

"You should have seen the look on your face." Her voice was somewhat apologetic but still jesting.

"I would assume it was the look of utter terror," he grumbled. "You just wanted me to take off my shirt again." He pulled off the said garment and began to wring it out.

"Do I?" she teased, though the sight of him made her heart gave a little squeeze. She looked back over the pool. "I think we could go swimming."

"I don't swim."

"I can teach you."

"I have no desire to learn." He shivered, droplets dribbling off of him. He flicked his hair out of his eyes.

She slid nearer to him. First he glared at her, suspecting that she might push him in again, but as she slipped her arms about his shoulders, he relaxed into her. "I think I can entice you," she whispered.

**LIMEALERTLIMEALERTLIMEALERTLIMEALERTLIMEALERTLIMEALERTLIMEALERTLIME**

His cheek tingled where her breath touched it. "I don't want to swim. I'll drown." He turned his lips back to hers, and they kissed again. His hands danced around the hem of her shirt before they wandered up inside it. They touched her belly and sides, crawling up to her chest until the garment had been discarded. He reveled in the soft glory of her breasts against his palms.

Lightly, his teeth dragged across her neck, and she moaned at him. Her arms wrapped around him, dragging him down on top of her. She tangled her fists into his thick hair as he kissed down her body, down to where her skin ended and cloth began. Quickly it was torn away as well as his own, his erection pressed against her. He kissed down to her curly patch of dark hair just between her legs. Then, he tentatively licked between her lips. The moan his movements elicited turned him on. He was seeking something. He did not know what, but the primal instinct of his mind desired it strongly. His tongue flicked down to her center.

Then he found it. A soft pearl hidden within her flower revealed itself to his tongue. He passed his tongue over it gently, suckling for brief moments. An unsure finger wandered to her slit and found its way in. She whimpered, "That. That. Do that." Her hips bucked up to meet him. He smiled into her and touched her pearl with his tongue again, wiggling his finger a bit. Every movement made her yearn for more, and she told him so with mewls and whines until he was strongly sliding his finger in and out of her. He flitted his tongue delicately across her special place. His finger was inside her when she came, and he could taste her sweet sensation of unraveling before him.

He rolled off of her and carefully curled his arm about her. "Maleficent?" he whispered, his mouth near her ear. She let out a few heavy breaths before turning her eyes to him. "About that swimming?"

**LIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIMEOVERLIME**

"Diaval, you're in knee deep water. You're not drowning."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I can't do it." He stared down at his bare feet that seemed to be sinking into the muddy bottom. His trousers were still wet from being pushed in earlier. They were rolled up to his knees. His shirt was drying on the rock.

"Another step," she prompted. He begrudgingly forced himself to take another step forward. The bottom was gradually sloping down. She opened her arms to him, several yards away in water about her chest. "C'mon, Diaval." He stared at her open arms, and a childish desire to please her rose up within him. Their love-making hours earlier had slipped away into a memory, distant and foggy, while he tried to force himself to wander into deeper water.

The cool water lapped around his waist now, sending chills up and down his bare chest. He didn't like this at all. He sucked in a breath and let it out before sucking it in again quickly. "Mistress—"

"Diaval, calm down. The most dangerous thing in this water is me." Her shirt loosely billowed out into the water about her. "Come here. It's not too deep."

He stumbled toward her. His feet slipped from beneath him on the slimy bottom. He pitched forward into her and, feeling his face dip below the water for a moment, he panicked. He floundered uselessly in the water, grabbing ahold of her. Once his grip was strong, he wrapped his legs around her abdomen like a monkey about a tree, face buried into the crook of her neck. She stumbled backward but did not fall, surprisingly. "No, no," he croaked. "Not happening."

"Diaval, let go of me."

"I can't, I can't, mistress, no—"

"Diaval."

"Mistress—"

"_Diaval_, let go of me!"

He sucked in a deep breath. Her scent calmed him enough to disentangle himself from her, tentatively dipping his toes into the water. He gradually sank into it. "Sorry, mistress." The water was up to his chest now. "Can I go back to shore now?" His voice was much meeker than he meant it to be.

"A few more minutes, pet."

"Now I'm your pet. Huh."

"Is there something wrong about being my pet?" She crossed her arms and raised a dark eyebrow at him.

"The farmers call me your familiar," he whispered. It was another thing he had not meant to say aloud; the last slip of the tongue had gotten him quite a reward, but a raven only had so much luck.

"Bollocks to the farmers. They are men," she spat, the word vile on her tongue. "They only speak what their simple minds produce and deem evil."

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say to that, except that he was sorry he mentioned it. He backed away from her, putting some space between them in the hope that she would let him return to shore. "Ravens don't swim, mistress."

"Dogs have a natural inclination toward swimming."

His eyes widened. "Mistress, no!" His cry gargled off into a yelp as his mouth lengthened into a snout, his limbs shortening and growing fur. He paddled quickly, his tail flapping while he tried to stay afloat.

"See, there you go!"

He was certain he was drowning. Water clogged his thick, black pelt quickly. His paws churned rapidly, but the water was thick like butter to him. He was being dragged down. He tried to growl, bark, yap, send a message that he was sinking, but his mistress stared at him with her eyes gleaming. He fought his way back over to her. The magic floated from her fingers and transformed him. His sides heaved in heavy panting. "I almost drowned!"

"I would not let that happen."

"Wouldn't you?"

She glared at him. "Of course not!" Her face portrayed a bit of hurt.

He turned away from her. The water was suffocating him, thick around his chest. He needed to leave the water. So he did. He left the pool, stumbling toward the shoreline. He tugged his shirt back onto his body and headed into the forest.

"Diaval, stop." He halted but did not turn around. There was a rustling of feathers. He could hear her land behind him. "I pushed you too hard. I am sorry."

He kept walking.

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The feeling of utter repulsion was still thick and heavy about him. His wet body had soaked his shirt through. He couldn't fly away anymore. So he trudged on. He trudged into the moors, hoping that she might follow him yet praying that she didn't. She'd forced him into water and transformed him into a hideous dog. She knew he hated dogs. But maybe she didn't understand quite how much he hated dogs. Or maybe she was hell-bent on torturing him. Remembering the hours prior, he decided that probably wasn't the case. But what did he know?

This was another thing that bothered him beyond belief. He had served her for almost two decades. She had saved his life and he had saved hers in return. Together, they had raised a child. They had battled knights with chains and fire. They had navigated a wall of iron thorns. And, for the first time, they had united themselves in a way that most servants never tied themselves to their masters. But still he did not feel he knew everything he wished he knew about her.

He did not know where he was going. He was unsure of every placement of his foot. It took much longer to walk than it did to fly. But he was bound to walk, as flying was no longer an option. It would never be an option again. He was trapped walking. And, though they had no direction like his wings, his feet had a sense of direction all their own. They brought him past the tree line and toward the cottage that had gone unused for several months now. He sat down with his back to a tree like they used to do together to watch the imbeciles attempt to care for the child.

He did not want to go inside. He had not been within the walls of the cottage since Aurora was a baby. Maleficent had sent him to quiet her from her crying, but he'd fallen asleep while rocking her crib, and when dawn came the next morning, the pixies had chased the "filthy creature" from their home with broomsticks and a few forbidden stinging hexes. His mistress had not taken long to heal his minor wounds, but his ego had been inconsolable for the greater part of two weeks.

He only wished he could have his ego bruised again in exchange for his wings.

He could remember the first time he'd been made a man. The source of the magic was not made apparent to him immediately, and all he could do was turn his head to peer down his dirty back to search for wings. Because surely, surely, no matter how magical the source may be, no one would dare turn him into any creature lacking wings! He needed wings, needed them to survive and search for food, needed them to know that he had freedom. He didn't care of the filth that covered him or of his stark nakedness. He cared only for the wings that should be there but weren't. And as she approached him, he became aware of his nudity, for she was beautiful. But, even more so, he became aware of _her_ winglessness. Her magic screamed of fairy. But fairies flew. Fairies had wings.

It had been a moment before he could recover himself enough to think that she had perhaps done it on purpose, done it to torture him, done it to give him a fate far worse than being beaten to death by a human. A human would kill him, but a human would never take his wings. So he had stared at her a bit distrustfully, twitching his eyebrow while the words thoughtlessly spilled from his mouth. "What have you done to my beautiful self?"

Her words came quickly. "Would you rather I let them beat you to death?"

This he found strange, for he had never been addressed by anyone except birdkind prior, but then he remembered that he was now a man. And men could speak. He flipped his hair to scan his dirty, bare back again. "I'm not certain." A flightless life was no life at all.

He blinked several times, chasing away the memory. It had begun to drizzle upon him, the cottage looking gray and desolate and lonely, as though it missed its residents. But it was written into his instincts not to approach it. So he didn't.

The drizzle shifted into a pour. Lightning crackled in the blackened sky, and Diaval's clothes were quickly soaked through again. He rose to find shelter. While he was a natural animal, even animals knew that storms were dangerous. He sought out a hollow under the roots of a fallen tree; he had been here before, when his mistress had left him in this form to watch the cottage and a storm had blown in. So it was down there he ducked, comforted by the earthen, muddy smell of the forest around him. The rhythm comforted him into like a lullaby to a baby, and soon he was drifting off in his own little hole of warm wetness.

* * *

The sound of flapping wings nudged him from his drippy slumber. "Diaval. I know you're here."

He cleared his throat. It was sore. "Here, mistress." The rain had lightened, but had not stopped. He stuck his head out of the hollow, suddenly realizing just how cramped it was.

She approached him and sat down next to the hollow. "Smart bird," she commented.

"I still can't read or write."

"She shouldn't have used calligraphy."

"What's that?"

She sighed. "A form of stylized writing that royals use to make themselves seem more educated than the peasants. It is surprising that the pixies knew it well enough to teach it to her." She studied her fingernails. Was this how they were going to go about things? Fighting and then trying to forget it ever happened? She couldn't say she had serious problems with it.

"Oh." He found her hand and traced the back of it. Then he gave a sleepy yawn and leaned his head against the trunk of the tree. Water was starting to drip down between the roots, tickling his nose.

She pushed him over. "Scoot." She slid into the cramped space next to him. The hollow was warm, earthy, and safe. While it could be wished that it was a bit larger, it was quite a decent shelter from the storm.

He rested his head on her shoulder, and, after a moment of deliberation, she tenderly pressed her lips to his temple. His mouth curled into a smile, but he didn't put in the effort to kiss her back. Instead, he let his hand squeeze hers carefully. He slipped into a slumber, exhausted from swimming and trekking all this way.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This is the third chapter! There is one more to come. Just so there are no surprises between us, Diaval undergoes a lot of pain in this chapter and the next. **

**I got a request to make this story more lemon-y and limey, but what you saw in chapter two is really all the lemon and lime I have in me. It's just not my forte. I tried, but it ended up very awkward. Just bear with me.**

**I also plan to write more Maleval/Diavicent fics in the future, so feel free to follow me or to examine my other stories, "Wings" and "Fingers"!**

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"Oh god, my neck." Diaval twisted his head a bit. Then he slipped. With a squawk, he wrapped his clawed feet about the tree branch, uselessly flapping his wings for balance. Pain shot through them. He squawked again. "Mistress!" he tried to call out. How did he get up here? Where had she gone? Why had she left him like this? He was powerless like this. He was in pain, each slight shuffling of his wings sending an ache through them. With shaky legs, he hobbled back into the nest she had crafted for him. A nice piece of handiwork, he observed, though he wished he could have used it sooner.

A rustling of the brush below him startled him. His beady black eyes flicked down to it, where a young man—perhaps a late teen, maybe in his twenties—emerged from the bushes. A bow was in his hand, a quiver of arrows on his back. Diaval didn't dare move, but he didn't need to. The archer had already spotted him and was knocking an arrow onto his bow.

_No, no!_ Diaval spread his wings, desperate to fly away. Pain shot through them. He couldn't fly. He couldn't escape. He couldn't do anything, anything except watch his death be pulled back on a string by the hand of a human. A fearful caw rose up from his chest. It came again while the man's fingers flicked, releasing the arrow.

There was a flash of feathers while Maleficent hurled herself before him, using her body to protect his from the arrow. A blast of telekinetic force slammed the youth backward. His head knocked into a stone.

His mistress leaned on the tree for a moment. Her chest heaved with deep breaths before her knees buckled beneath her, and she slumped to the ground. Diaval flapped his wings. The pain was nothing. He had to get to her. But he couldn't fly! He couldn't fly down to her. _I don't need to fly_. With another loud caw, he jumped off of the branch. Landing lopsided, he limped beside her.

Her emerald eyes flicked toward him. Magic danced from her fingers, and his form lengthened and grew. Immediately, he grabbed the arrow that protruded from her abdomen. "Mistress…" he breathed. He swallowed hard, trying to cough up his courage. He'd been a dragon for her. He'd been a dog for her. He'd faced iron and flames and spears and angry men for her. This should be nothing…right? "Lie still. This will hurt." He grasped it hard and tugged firmly. He couldn't look to her face. The groans that came from her throat were enough to tell him that she was pained.

When the arrowhead was removed, he blinked at it. There was a purple substance on the tip of the sharp point. He sniffed it carefully. "Poison," he muttered. Then, remembering something he had witnessed a man do to his snake-bitten son once, he lowered his lips to her gaping wound. He sucked at it until his mouth was full of her tainted blood. Turning his face away, he spat, and repeated the action until her blood tasted clean. Or, as clean as he knew blood to taste. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he tore a strip from his shirt and tied it around her tightly, hoping to staunch the flow of the bleeding.

"Mistress." He looked to her face, paler than usual. She breathed. She was alive. Fairies healed quickly, he knew, and they were more resilient than humans. He grabbed the arrow and approached the archer with rage heating his face.

The boy was just coming to. And he was just a boy, perhaps seventeen, perhaps a year older. He shrank back from Diaval's anger and reached for his bow, but the raven man kicked it far out of reach. "Please—please, no!"

Diaval was not listening. He shook the arrow at the boy, too furious to speak. Angry tears were hot, glistening in his eyes. Oh, he'd felt anger as a man before, but this was something new, something new and different, and he hated it and reveled in it at the same time. But as he was focusing on his emotions, the boy was focusing on finding a weapon. He did so, lobbing a stone at Diaval's head. It made a loud cracking sound as it connected with his skull. The boy slammed it again and again until the raven had fallen over backward and was dizzy. The archer leapt at him. He stuck up the arrow. It pierced the adolescent's abdomen. The boy rolled away moaning.

Diaval scrambled to his feet and snatched the bow from his hands. "Run, human!" he snarled. "Run and hope you get back to your pathetic city before your own poison kills you!"

The archer did as he was told. He found his feet and stumbled into the brush, heading back to the human kingdom. In his wake, he left his quiver and bow, which Diaval dropped from his hand as though it burned him. He turned back to Maleficent. "Mistress?" He knelt down next to her. "Mistress."

Her eyes flickered open. "Diaval." Her emerald orbs twinkled at him. She pulled herself up with a pained grunt. "You are alright?"

He stared into the undergrowth where the boy had gone. "I am. The archer is not."

Her expression became, somehow, more grim and grave than before. "What did you do to him?"

"He attacked me. I stabbed him with his own arrow." He touched her hair. "Mistress, we need to go home before it is too dark." He couldn't hide the relief in his voice, nor did he wish to.

She stood shakily. "I need to find him." She pulled away the cloth tied around her belly and touched where the wound was quickly healing.

"No, mistress—why?" he demanded.

She glared at him. "If he dies, it will violate our agreement with the humans. We will descend into war again."

"He shot you first!"

"I'll be less concerned when there is a human council that will believe that." She spread her wings. "Go home, Diaval. I'll be there soon." She jetted off into the darkening night sky and prayed that the young archer could be found and healed as quickly as her wound had knitted itself together.

When she caught sight of the body, it was on the farmlands. Three men were transporting it back to the home of the family. She was not sad. She could not be sad for the creature that had been intent on murdering her best friend, her servant, her pet, her…her lover. And that had been his intention: murder. The arrow would not have been poisoned if it were not for the intention of killing and not eating. She sensed that the boy had been sent by his father's orders to rid their kingdom of a demon. And that was what they considered Diaval, wasn't it? A demon. He was a demon, a pest bird turned man, a witch's familiar. And now he had committed a crime. Now he had killed a member of the human kingdom. _ They'll go to the courts. They'll go to the courts and have him put to death for murder._ She swung toward the palace of her beastie. The tears glittered in her eyes, but she forced them back down. The queen would save her friend. She would pardon Diaval of his crime committed in self-defense. She would have to.

* * *

Aurora combed through her hair carefully, beginning to braid it. She blinked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes glowed as they always had, but she had changed. This place had changed her. This place brought her to humanity. It trapped her in these walls. It forced her into these torture devices known as corsets. It made her, more than anything, long for the hominess of the moorlands, long for the black nuts and the fair people and the light pixies and trolls. She missed the moors. They were the only place that would ever truly be home to her. She found herself wistfully longing to return to her second kingdom as she was forced to struggle through her golden locks with a new braid her maid wanted her to try.

A tapping came at the glass door to her balcony. "Beastie?"

Aurora sprang up from her chair. "Godmother!" Hair forgotten, she flung her arms about the fairy's waist. "I missed you!" She glanced out at the setting sun. "Is it so late already?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued, "Diaval came by yesterday! It was quite a surprise! The guards beat him half to death, though. I told them all to let _you_ in, of course, but I never would've dreamed that he would come al—" Her azure eyes widened at the blood on the front of Maleficent's shirt, and her talkative, giddy attitude evaporated. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine, beastie." She cleared her throat, about to explain what had happened, but the queen jumped into speech again.

"You're not fine, you're bleeding!" Her eyes were pooling with tears. "Who did this? I can have them beheaded!"

Maleficent sucked in a deep breath. "It is already healing, Aurora." She stroked the girl's locks of sunshine gently. "You needn't worry about the boy who did this. He is already dead. That is why I am here." She took another breath. She didn't know how much Aurora knew about the farmers or why they hated Diaval. So she decided to begin her tale at the beginning, on the first day that he'd been changed. "The farmer was going to beat him to death. I changed him into a man, and the farmer ran away shrieking about a demon. Those men and their families have hated him ever since." She ran her fingers through the queen's hair and absentmindedly braided it while she continued speaking. "One of the farmers sent his son out today with a bow and a quiver of arrows. His intention was to kill Diaval. I tried to deflect the arrow. It hit me instead of him." How was she to continue now? She didn't want to portray Diaval in a bad light. She needed to make him seem as innocent as possible to further her hope of keeping him alive. "Diaval approached the boy, but the boy attacked him. So he stabbed him with one of his own arrows."

Aurora was quiet for a long moment. She was crying silently, as she usually cried. "The boy is dead?" she queried shakily.

"Yes. I saw the farmers carrying the body over the fields." He was someone's son. He was someone's brother. But the only worry she could drudge up was for Diaval. "They'll be coming soon to pursue him in court. They'll want him beheaded for his crimes, if not burned at the stake." She closed her eyes tightly, fighting her own tears.

"I'll—"

Two swift knocks came at the door. "Your majesty?" It cracked open, and a wrinkled, old maid walked in. Her washed-out gray eyes widened at the site of Maleficent. "How did she get in here?" she demanded, irritation more than fear or anger making itself known in her eyes, in the twitching of her bushy silver eyebrow.

Aurora tried to calm herself, hurriedly wiping away her tears. "Maleficent is welcome here whenever she likes, Martha!" She crossed her arms

The maid nodded, clearly too old and withered to breech an argument about whether or not the queen's godmother could fly in through the window whenever she wished. "There are some farmers here to speak with you and the judges and the counsel regarding the sudden death of their son." Her eyes flickered to Maleficent once again. They were soft like gray storm clouds, but not at all severe. Soft eyes, motherly eyes, caring eyes. Eyes with many years. Maleficent looked away. It was clear the maid had more to say, but she refrained from it. "I will escort you down as soon as you are ready, your majesty." She left the room and closed the door, though both knew that she would wait right outside for the queen.

Aurora waited until her godmother tied the end of her braid before turning to give the fairy a hug. She bit back more tears. "I'll save him. I promise I'll save him, godmother."

And Maleficent wondered if she was not the only one to make a dishonest promise to Diaval.

* * *

The sky was dark with the depth of night when she returned to their nests. "Diaval?" she whispered. His form was sitting up, his eyes wide but unblinking. She sat down next to him and took his hand, unfurling one of her wings about his shoulders. "Diaval, speak."

He tilted his head to peer at her. "Maleficent," he whispered. He extended his other hand to touch her cheek. It was a rare occurrence for him to use her given name. There was a quaver in his movements, in his voice. He was vulnerable. He was wingless. He had killed someone. He had committed murder. For he knew that there was no way for the boy to have traveled all the way home and to have been healed before death swooped upon him like a crow. Or like a raven. He shivered at that thought. "What are they to do with me?"

"The court is meeting now. But I suspect they put it off until morning." She let her arm relax around him. "You should sleep."

"I tried. I can't."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't it?" he whispered. "I didn't have to…I shouldn't have—"

"Shouldn't have what, Diaval?" Her aggravation was growing, her stomach turning. "Shouldn't have defended yourself? Shouldn't have tried to save me as is your bound duty?"

He lowered his head. "My time is done, mistress. My wings are gone. You should have let him kill me, instead of letting the courts find a much more painful way to do so." His voice was a trembling thing, a mere leaf clinging to a branch. Then the tears began to leak from his eyes.

She didn't try to wipe them away. "Diaval." She tried to produce the words that she didn't know how to say. "If I had let him kill you, I would never have forgiven myself. You have been my closest companion for more than sixteen years. You were—_are_—my wings. You are my freedom. And you will never become the hideous creature that I became under the influence of men." She paused, trying to collect herself and her thoughts. "I will defend you from the men the way you defended me. Though I daresay I shan't become a dragon, I would rather die than let them behead you for an alleged crime that they do not understand." Her fingers brushed through his thick hair with its intermixed feathers. "And if you ever say anything as obtuse as that again, you'll be a puppy for a week."

His face was tortured for a moment. Tears seeped out, one by one, as he turned his lips downward slightly to kiss her. She kissed him back gently, wiping away his tears as they dripped out. He broke away. "I love you."

She stared back at him. Her eyes gleamed with emotion—hurt and betrayal and rage, but love and tenderness and affection and devotion. Years of emotion were glowing there, years that had gone pent up and unfelt. "I love you," she whispered. Sliding closer to him, she buried her face into his warm neck. "You need to sleep."

"I'll have nightmares."

"I'll chase them away." And she pushed him down into her nest and curled up next to him. She traced her slender digits over the scars that adorned his sculpted chest. She smiled. "Do I have to sing you a lullaby?" she teased.

"Of course not." He kissed her, keeping an arm about her waist. His wings were gone. His freedom stolen. He'd nearly been killed by an archer. He would soon be persecuted for his crimes. But none of that mattered. How could it? It couldn't. Not with this beautiful fairy in his arms, lying next to him, loving him in the only way either of them knew how to love.

She laid her head on his chest, letting their legs tangle together as they would, and gave a quiet sigh. There was nothing to be said. She was the first to fall asleep, closely followed by him. No nightmares were to bother either of them that night; they were curled safely in each other's warm, comfortable arms.

* * *

There was pain. It was in his shoulder. He tried to mumble something to Maleficent, but his voice squawked instead. She was examining his wings again, trying to find a way to fix them. He fell silent. Her fingers traced along the crooked bones as though they could be repaired by a touch. "I could try again, you know," she murmured. "I could re-break them and try again."

He remembered once, when he was about three years into his service, he had found a wounded mouse that had been mauled by a barn cat. Of course, being a raven, he was awaiting its death so he could eat it like the scavenger he was known to be. But his mistress had noticed his perching, and came to examine it. He remembered the precise way she had scooped the little brown bundle into the palm of her hand and tried to heal it, but, discovering its wounds were mortal, she had been unable to. An icy blue magic, one that he had not seen before and had not seen since, had danced from her fingertips. Moments later, she was placing the corpse of the mouse before him, and requested that he took it elsewhere to eat it.

He wondered why she wasn't using the blue magic on him. Why would she put in this effort? It was useless. There was no point in her putting any effort toward keeping him alive, let alone working on his wings.

Then last night's memories came back to haunt him. _"I love you." "I love you."_ And he swallowed hard, giving a quiet caw. He didn't want to be like this. Wingless. Vulnerable. He wanted to be a man. He didn't want her to try again. He wanted to be a man. Seeing the longing in his eyes, yellow magic danced from her fingers and he grew in a fluttering of feathers. He rubbed his shoulder, the last of the ache ebbing away.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't feel particularly good, no." There was an edge in his voice. He kept thinking about the blue magic. He wondered if he really wanted it to touch him, to take his life as it had taken the mouse's.

She rubbed his shoulders with gentle hands, kissing his cheek from behind. "I won't do it anymore if you don't like it." That was a lie, of course. She would just make sure that he was thoroughly asleep by magic whenever she did it. Pain was necessary for healing. And he would be healed. _I promised him. I will fix him. He will fly again._ She massaged his shoulders with a firm but soft touch until she felt the tension in them fade away.

He tilted his head back to look at her. "I want to brush your hair." He kissed the tip of her nose.

She crinkled it in response. "Alright." The two shifted places, and he began to fondly brush through her brunette locks. The brush was almost unnecessary; her hair was perfect. He gathered it into his hands and began to braid with adept fingers. The rhythm was easy to master. His mistress had done this hundreds of times under his watchful eye. After all, there wasn't much for a queen of the moors to do. But now he was doing it, and the peace that came over him consequently made him realize why she had done it so often after losing her wings. It was a rhythmical, comforting sensation. It was steady and repetitive. He tied in the hair tie carefully and laid the braid between her dark wings.

He brushed his fingers against the feathers tenderly. "Beautiful," he whispered. They quivered under his touch. "Ticklish?" he remarked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sensitive," she replied. His hands fell away gently. "I didn't say _stop_." She quirked an eyebrow. She could sense the smile that graced his lips as his digits parted the feathers, combing through them with a gentle touch.

Worry pierced his heart. "Mistress—"

"You can stop calling me that."

"I don't…" He sighed. Some things just weren't worth the arguments and debates and discussions that accompanied them. "Fine. What do you suppose the humans wish to do with me?"

"It doesn't matter. I won't let them hurt you."

"I should be held accountable for my crime."

"You committed no crime, Diaval." She turned around to face him and opened her arms. He slid into them with a careful hug. His arms slipped around her back, and they buried their faces into each other's necks, each seeking comfort, each seeking safety, each seeking freedom. "Aurora will not let them take you. I will not let them take you. I would sooner strike down the whole human kingdom, erect our thorny walls and let them destroy themselves." She stroked his hair. "They will be held accountable for their ignorance."

Loud iron and metal clashed through the bushes. Three soldiers slammed through the forest growth to them. "Diaval of the moorland fair folk," one of them graveled. "We have come to charge you with the murder of seventeen year old Samuel Herzog. You are to go on trial immediately." He proffered some handcuffs. "Please stand and let us escort you back to the castle, or we will do so by force."

He climbed to his feet. Maleficent scrambled up as well. "He will not be going." Her eyes flashed, and she tried to push him behind her.

He sighed. "Mistress, please." He was subdued as they clamped the iron handcuffs to his wrists and shackles to his feet. A rough hand shoved his head downward and his neck gave a painful crack. He cringed and complied without complaint.

The butt of a sword dug into his back. "Walk." He stumbled forward. Maleficent stayed close by. The soldier did not dare turn to look at her. "He is to go alone."

"I go where he goes," she replied sternly, crossing her arms around her chest. She would not let him face this alone. Even if she couldn't near him for the iron that adorned his wrists and ankles, she would not let him face this alone. He had done no wrong. He had defended himself. He had defended her. She would not let these people take his freedom from him.

As they passed through the farmer fields, a stout woman hurled a stone at Diaval. "You killed my son!" she shrieked. "You killed my son, you bloody bastard! You murderer! You stabbed him with his own arrow!" The stone thumped dully off of his shoulder and fell to the ground. The other onlookers began to pick up stones and threw them at him. Many missed, but many more hit, until Maleficent formed a protective bubble around the group.

"Witch!" a voice whispered. "Her familiar," claimed another. Their insults varied few and far between, but each stung a bit more than the last. Everyone, including the knights, was happy when they arrived at the castle and marched through the palace gates.

"This way to the courtroom." They led the two there with no words passing between them and no struggle going on; Diaval had not dared put a toe out of line since they had slapped the cuffs on him and shackled his feet together. He let the rough hands shove him into the courtroom. He could not see his mistress—he didn't dare raise his eyes from the ground—but he could hear her wings dragging the ground beside him. She had walked all this way to be with him. He wanted nothing more than to grab her hand and bury himself in her arms. But he couldn't. So he tilted his head back to admire at the crowd in the room.

They were in the bottom sector of a large, circular room. Everyone else was on a balcony above them. It was meant to make them feel smaller. It was working. He shuffled closer to his mistress.

A fat man in the audience leapt to his feet. "Why is the witch here?" he demanded. Other spectators began to jeer. Up in the very top and center, in the very back, three very fat men and Aurora were seated. The young queen's eyes were closed tightly, her eyebrows ruffled and shoulders trembling. Her lips barely twitched as she murmured a prayer for Diaval.

The judge with the largest nose slammed his hammer down on the desk. "Order." His voice was a monotone. He was bored. That could only mean one thing—the decision had already been made.

Diaval took several calming breaths. They were doing all this just to scare him. The queen had pardoned him. He knew she would have, especially if Maleficent requested it. They had pardoned him. This was an act. This was a game. This was a scare tactic. He would be free soon.

A second judge babbled on and on about the law and consequences of breaking it. Only one stood out to him—murder was to be punished by beheading or burning after three to five hours of torture. Then there was a question. "Mr. Diaval, please tell us your side of the story."

He did, tweaking the truth a bit as he went. He told them that he was sitting on a branch as a human when the boy came out and shot at him. He told them the truth from there—the arrow struck his mistress rather than him, and after he did his best to tend to her wounds, he approached the boy. But Samuel (he thought it best to refer to his attacker by his given name to make himself seem less callous) was frightened and began to beat him with a stone until he was dizzy and sick, and he grabbed the arrow to protect himself. He was careful to tell that the boy was alive when he fled the presence of the faerie and the raven-man.

"Very well." The judge had no comments to make on that. But the spectators did. They jeered and yelled and swore until the judges called order again. "Mr. Herzog. Your turn."

Maleficent's voice rose up. "He was not there when we were attacked. He does not know what happened, as he was not a witness!"

"Mr. Herzog claims to have been hidden in the trees when his son was brutally murdered by your servant. Stay silent unless called upon or we will throw you out."

Then a tall, thick, blonde man stood. He wiped at his eyes with a handkerchief and told a tale that had never happened. He told a tale of Samuel accidentally wandering into the moorlands, and how he was attacked when the pest bird turned man dropped down upon him and began to stab him multiple times with his own arrows before slitting his throat and fleeing into the undergrowth. He sat down.

Diaval felt sick to his stomach. He was going to lose its contents soon if he didn't get away from all these vile, disgusting, lying men. These men were the same ones that would throw nets over him and beat him, the same that would slice his back open and let him fly away with his blood pouring out into the sand. These men were the same men that fostered the ambition and greed that led to his mistress's wings being stolen. He tried to take a deep breath. Maleficent was beside him. She would protect him. She wouldn't let them hurt him. She wouldn't let anyone hurt him. She would keep him safe. _"I won't let them hurt you." "You committed no crime, Diaval." _He took another deep breath.

The room fell silent as the judges pretended to deliberate. All three charged him guilty of the murder of Samuel Herzog. He was numb to the pain as his mistress reached to grab him and the iron scalded both of them. Guards leapt on him and dragged them apart. He could hear her shrieking his name, and then just shrieking as they pressed their iron defenses to her skin. Aurora was yelling, "He was pardoned, I pardoned him!" and the most hideous judge was blabbing, "A pardon for murder can only be given by a kingship over the age of twenty-one…"

He was dragged down to the dungeons. The last sound he heard was of glass shattering as Maleficent broke free of the guards and busted through a window.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: The real drama starts here. This is, indeed, the final installment of Protected, and I feel many of you will probably not be very satisfied with the ended (or with much of anything that happens in this chapter, really). I have done my best to be realistic as far as the human government structure and how they feel toward the fair folk, and I have also done my best to leave it open-ended, for those of you who like to imagine their own endings to things. **

**As stated in the previous chapter, I will continue to write Maleval/Diavicent fics, so don't fret. :) A special shout-out to everyone who has reviewed with kind comments. Especially to that one author who said my writing was so good it was like a robot. It really brightens my day to see such things. **

**A fair warning: Aurora acts a bit OOC in this chapter. That was because I had to get her out of the scene; frankly, she can't be around when Maleficent and Diaval are screwing each other, can she? **

**I will let you all have your reading now. :) Thank you all for continuing to follow and support this story!**

**Disclaimer-I don't own nuttin. **

* * *

Maleficent circled in the skies for close to an hour before she landed on the balcony of the queen. She wanted to cry, but couldn't. She couldn't let the tears roll down her cheeks. For if they started, they'd never stop. Her feet paced silently on the balcony. She didn't want to go in. Entering was impossible. Her emotions were in too much turmoil for this. Her own words burned in her brain: _"I won't let them hurt you."_ What kind of promise was that? How was that even possible? Why would she say such a thing when she couldn't ensure it? _Because I am a fool. No matter how much I've been hurt, I still think myself more powerful than these greedy, ambitious, ignorant creatures of men._ There was pain behind the truthfulness of that thought.

Within the room, she could hear Aurora sobbing. Another voice was there, too; she thought it the voice of the aged maid that had disturbed their discussion the day before. Maleficent struggled to remember her name. It floated back to her slowly. Martha. Martha was with Aurora. "They have never respected us womenfolk, your majesty." Her words were soft, gentle, but firm. "That is why they have pushed you to marry the prince. Men believe a kingdom cannot prosper without a king, that only a king can run a kingdom and lead an army into battle." She sighed. "That is not to say that those claims are true, for they are the claims from the minds of men, but nevertheless, it is how our world turns."

Aurora's trembling voice rose up. "Why wuh-wouldn't they tell me buh-before? Wuh-Why did they wait till they were luh-leading him away?"

Martha was silent for a long time. "They were ruled by a tyrant for almost twenty years, your majesty. They will do anything to undermine your power." She paused. "They want to make you feel like you are the tiny criminal being led into the courtroom, far below them and their power."

Maleficent pushed the glass doors open. "Diaval is no criminal."

Aurora leapt off of the bed and wrapped her arms around her godmother's waist. There were no words, only heaving sobs that wracked the teenager, and the rustling of feathers as Maleficent's wings tucked around both of them. Martha nodded to Maleficent, and then rose and left the room. The faerie felt a prickle of gratefulness in her heart. Someone else cared for her little beastie.

"Beastie. Beastie, hush now. People will think I'm killing you." She tried to quiet the girl. "It's not your fault. You cannot give yourself power." She stroked the sunshine curls and kissed her forehead. The love blossoming in her chest overrode the sorrow there. More than anything, she wanted to tell Aurora of her plan to save Diaval. Of course she would save Diaval, for she had promised him safety. But if the queen knew of what she planned to do, she would easily be overthrown and punished for conspiring with the fair people. "He'll be okay, beastie. He won't blame you."

"He won't be okay!" she whimpered. "They're going to kill him! They're going to kill tomorrow at noon, and they're going to leave his body for the crows to devour!"

She sighed. "Diaval knew what he was getting into when he fought that boy. He is not unfamiliar with men's unkindness, and he knows that you are not to blame for your father's council members."

"I tried to get a new council," she sniffled. "But that's another duty reserved for kings only, apparently."

"The moors will not accept any king you marry. You are their only and supreme ruler."

"That doesn't give me any power to save Diaval."

Maleficent's eyes drifted to the window. "How many hours of torture did they sentence him to?"

Aurora squeezed her arms around herself. "The maximum. Five hours of beating, branding, and whatever else they decide to do to him. And kneeling on rice for the rest of the night." Tears leaked out of her eyes. "Godmother…"

"Yes?"

"If you sneak in to see him, will you please tell him that I'm sorry? And that I love him?" She paused a moment. Her voice crackled again. "And that he's a pretty bird…"

Maleficent squeezed her eyes shut. _I will not cry. I will not cry in front of her. I will not let her see how badly I am hurting._ "I'll see what I can do, beastie." She took to the air and left her goddaughter there, trusting that the servant woman would care for her. She had things to do—like organize how to save Diaval.

* * *

The tears came when she was combing through her nest, looking for any weapon that she might be able to use. First she found his parchment with all the letters of the alphabet written in Aurora's fancy calligraphy, and her dripping tears smeared the ink beyond readability. "Diaval," she whispered. How long ago was it that she had awoken to him tracing the letters in the sand? How long since she had grabbed his hand and shown him how to write his name? It seemed both an eternity and just moments ago.

Then she saw the brush. She lifted it into the fading light of the day. It gleamed and sparkled just as it had the night he'd pulled it from his pocket and told her he'd gotten it for her. She fondly touched the bristles to her cheek. She didn't dare take her hair down, for he had done her braid, and she wished to keep it like that. Memories flashed back to her. "I love you," she whispered to the air. And she had never been one to admit her limited affection for others. "I'll save you. I promise."

She lay back in his nest, and smelled his scent, and clutched the brush and his parchment to her chest. It was only then that she could feel a bit of his presence, could smell a bit of him close by, and found peace in a fitful sleep.

She jerked awake in the depth of the night. The stars were bright in the sky, but there was no moon. She was careful to keep her wing-beats soft and quiet as she neared the dungeons. There was a single guard, fat and unarmored, snoozing in a chair. She ducked past him and into the darkness of the jail.

The kingdom was notorious for not keeping prisoners. She had known this long before her wings were stolen; though she doubted Aurora knew this, her grandmother—Stefan's mother—had been burned at the stake for adultery. Stefan, she knew, had pushed to have even the most petty of criminals sentenced to death, because to keep a man in jail was to waste resources, and resources could be better spent on important things like iron and how to destroy the moors.

She knew, when she glanced in to the only occupied cell, that the form was Diaval's. He was small. He was tinier than she'd ever seen him before. Hands chained together and to the wall where his only position was on his knees. Granules of rice scattered the ground before him. He was bloodied, his scars torn open. Welts dotted the parts of his shoulders that could be seen. "Diaval," she whispered. "Diaval, are you asleep?"

He breathed and did not look at her. His dark hair was hanging in his face. But his voice—his voice, oh his voice—was broken, trembling, and betrayed. "You said…you wouldn't let…them hurt me." He tilted his head back. "They're going…They're going to kill me." His coal black eyes stared at her. Through her, almost. "And you're not going to help…'cause you're not real…" His head lolled back. The breath stole from her lungs. He thought he was hallucinating.

She shook her head. "No, Diaval. No. I am here. I'm going to get you out, or die trying." She scanned up and down the iron rails that separated him from her.

He blinked quickly several times. "Mistress…" he breathed. "Mistress, please…let me out…" He was trying to shift his weight. "My legs, mistress, my knees, they hurt like all hell's fury. Please just let me out…" His moans were growing louder.

"Diaval, hush! You'll wake the guard!" She reached toward two iron rails. It turned a smart red-orange when her hand neared it. _I will get him out. I have to get him out_. Each of her palms grabbed onto a rail. The heat boiled against her. She could feel it burning, burning, burning until she was sure her very skin would melt away before the metal did. But the metal did give way. It finally liquefied and let her pull a circle wide enough to fit a bird through it. She snatched her hands away. The flesh was bright red, mangled in places as though torn.

His eyes were disbelieving. A hallucination could not have produced anything as vivid, as honest, as true to Maleficent as that selfless action. "Maleficent," he whispered. He strained against the bounds that had long ago bloodied his wrists. "Don't, don't hurt yourself…"

She gave a wry smile. "Too late, Diaval." Yellow magic curled toward him, and he felt his shape shifting. His bounds fell away from his raven form. "Come here," she whispered. "I'll get you out of here." She opened her hands to him, and, burnt though they were, they were the most comforting thing he had seen since they had hugged that morning. He forced himself to limp toward her palms and finally into them. She tucked him into her thick robe and cradled him close to her chest. The guard was snoring as soundly as ever, and she left into the night.

* * *

"Lie still, Diaval! I'm trying to help you!" He gave an unintelligible murmur. She berated herself for snapping at him; she knew he was in a lot of pain. Brands of the human kingdom were scored deep into his flesh across his chest, on his belly, and a tiny one on his cheek. "I know it hurts. I'm sorry." Dawn was just streaking across the sky. She had not slept since she brought him home. Nor had he, for that matter. Her fingers ghosted across the second branding. The skin tried to stretch itself together, but couldn't; he was scarred. He groaned until the tugging was done. "One more burn. Then the hard part's over," she promised.

She nudged his face and brushed her lips against his wounded cheek. Her magic leaked into it. The scar was faint, but evident. "Mistress…"

"That's not my name."

He tried to smile. "I missed you."

She pulled his head into her lap and leaned down to kiss his nose. "I was supposed to tell you that our beastie loves you and thinks you're a pretty bird."

His expression didn't change. "Those were her words to a dying man?" he deadpanned.

She sighed. "Take what you can get." She looked to the sky. "The armies will be here soon." Her hands absently traced his gashes. Some left scars. Some didn't. His knees were the worst off—bloodied beyond repair with scars to show the abuse he had gone through under the force of men and their rice. _It could be used to feed their hungry people, but they use it to torture prisoners_.

He shakily sat up. His arms were weak under his own weight. "You are not going into battle," he whispered. Horror was etched into his eyes as black as a raven's feather.

She nodded. "I must."

"No!" He grabbed her bicep. "Not without me, you won't. I've spent too much time missing you to let some battle steal you away." He leaned toward her. She met him in the air to press their lips together. His gentle fingers tugged the tie out of her braid and let her hair unravel while her hands gently slipped up under his tunic. "Please, please don't leave," he whispered into her lips.

She could see the pain in his eyes. He had scars now, and more scars than just the etchings in his skin. "Diaval, I must. The army cannot fight without a leader."

"We do not need to fight!" She pulled away from him to examine him. "We can put the barrier back up. Defend those here. Not let any human touch us again." The desperation was evident across his face, in his voice. He needed her to stay with him.

"What about Aurora?" she whispered.

The girl stepped from the shadows. "I'm here, godmother." She sat down next to her. "They're coming. They're coming with fire and canons and all kinds of weapons I didn't even know they had, and I can't stop them." She sniffled. "They…they killed Martha!"

"They what?" Maleficent couldn't put together the pieces in her mind. The old maid, the old woman, the one who had comforted her beastie, the one who had cared for her enough to understand her connection with the fairy rather than condemn it… "Why?"

"She was convicted of treason and conspiring with the fae. They beheaded her in Diaval's place."

Diaval went stiff as a board. Maleficent squeezed his hand. 'They had to have a way to prove their power to you and to their people. What better way to do that than to kill someone you are close to?" She was loathe to admit it, but she had used those same tactics once, many years ago, when she was too set on frightening the crowd to hurt Stefan himself, and she had hurt his daughter in his stead. A truly ruthless villain had no qualms against harming an innocent. _The men and I are more alike than I would want_. She let Diaval's thumb swirl around the back of her hand, a steady comfort.

"What are we going to do?" the queen whispered.

Maleficent stared at the tree line that divided the human kingdom from theirs. Clouds of dust were rising up in the distance like they did on the day King Henry had first attacked the moors. She had vowed never to construct the barrier again. But this was not out of spite, or hate, or sorrow. This was out of a need to defend her land and stay near her mate. She had no doubt that he would follow her if she went to battle. She also had no doubt that he was still too injured and exhausted to fight.

The ground quaked and the thorns curled up from it in a roar of terror. Magic poured from her. She could feel Diaval's hold on her tighten as the thorns became steadily taller and thicker until the barrier was at its former height and fearsomeness. "If we're going to violate the treaty, we're going to violate all of it."

"They can't break it down, can they?" Aurora looked worried.

Diaval burst out laughing. Maleficent glared at him, and he gradually fell into silence, but explained,"Of course not. They spent the greater part of sixteen years trying to bust it down. It's indestructible."

"Don't jinx it, Diaval," the brunette whispered to him.

He smirked at her and kissed her jawline. "I trust you to protect us. Jinx or no jinx, wall or no wall."

Aurora went rigid beside her, and the two peered at her. She took a deep breath. "I in no way disapprove. But…is there anything else going on that I don't know about?"

Maleficent's emerald gems flickered to Diaval. Their gold streaks gleamed like the sun to him. He understood her meaning. The loss of his wings was his news, not hers. His to bear, his to tell, his, his, his. And, though neither of them would admit it, this loss was the reason behind their current situation—their love, and his crime. He huffed. "I can't fly anymore, Aurora." There it was, his news. Shared with her. The acknowledgment of it came flooding over him in waves again, and he knew that the torture he had endured was nothing compared to living a life without flight.

"What?" the girl breathed. Memories were clear with her, too; chasing the shiny black bird through the gardens; the shiny black bird flying to her window when she needed him, but never entering; the shiny black bird bowing before her as her godmother presented herself for the first time. The shiny black bird, the raven, Diaval, had lost his ability to fly. "What else are you two keeping from me?" Her voice was shrill.

"Nothing, beastie."

"At least, nothing comes to mind," Diaval amended. Maleficent glared at him.

There was a thundering of hoofs as the men drew nearer to the barrier. "You witch and your familiar! Come out of there now!"

She looked at him. He cut her off before she even began. "No." Softer, he added, "They'll go away eventually. They'll leave us alone. We may hate each other for the rest of eternity, and we may never have another peace treaty, but eventually they'll figure out that the wall can't be destroyed, and they'll go away."

"Stefan tried to burn the wall for almost two decades."

"He had a reason to. Those people? Their only reason is money and glory. They're not seeking vengeance. They're just trying to fix their injured pride, and they'd kill to do so."

His first comment stung. He hadn't thought it through, and from the look in his eyes, he still hadn't. That was okay. He was bound to say things that hurt her once in a while. She was bound to say things that hurt him. "You're right." She stood. So did he. Aurora closely followed. "We should go deeper into the moors. Where the other creatures are going. It will be safer there."

Aurora looked back over her shoulder toward the men. "Godmother…"

"Yes, beastie?"

"I…I can't stay here." There was fear in her voice, fear of offending her godmother. "I can't do all the things I want to do. I can't sleep in a tree and eat black nuts, and I can't make friends with all the fair people." Her pale lips trembled. "Those are my people, whether I like it or not. And it's my job to rule them, or to marry a man who can."

"They will find a new ruler."

"A greedy, ambitious ruler." Her eyes shimmered. "They'll find a man to torture the kingdom like my father did. I can't let that happen." A tear trickled down her cheek. "But I can find a good man. One like Philip, who will be kind to the people and let the moors alone, and will perhaps treat me like an equal." Her lips quivered. "I'm sorry."

Maleficent closed the space between them in a hug, dragging Diaval along with her. He had never hugged anyone besides his mistress. Aurora was very different; smaller, softer, with a sickening sweet smell clinging to her hair. "Do what you feel you must, beastie," the fairy whispered. "But these moors will always be your home, and you will always be welcome here." After a few more moments, the queen was disappearing into the thorns, navigating carefully through them.

Diaval squeezed Maleficent close to him. "Come on," he whispered. She looked up to him, her eyes swimming with tears. She had done everything to save her beastie. She'd been trapped in iron netting; she'd been speared and beaten. She'd watched a man she used to love plummet to his death, and she'd been forced to acknowledge that something within her still yearned for him, some innocent part that thought their relationship might still be salvaged. And she walked away. "Let's go. We'll come back in a few days to make sure everything's alright and the men haven't destroyed themselves." He squeezed her shoulder. "Maleficent. She can take care of herself. And her kingdom. Those men will see. No man is as competent as she is. They will see, and they will change their laws."

She leaned into him. "Yes. You're right." She kissed him. "I think…we should find somewhere…more private," she whispered.

He smirked. "Do you?"

"I do."

He hugged her close to him. "I love you," he whispered. "And, by all means, lead the way."

* * *

The place they found was a small cave deep in the moors. It was quiet and still, void of all creatures. They had traveled all day; night was heavy upon them. Together, they scraped together some musty old leaves to make for a meager nest. A better piece of handiwork could be crafted in the morning, but now? Now they needed each other. They needed each other's warmth and comfort and the structure of limbs that could build a personal castle for both of them.

Her lips crashed into his with a hunger that both of them needed to feed. Her hands wandered up and down his torso until his shirt was discarded. He slid his arms around her slim waist, and she slipped hers around his neck. Each gazed into the other's eyes for a moment. There was sadness between them, and desperation. Yes, a desperation, a desperation for affection and love, and neither knew how long they had lived with this need, only that they wished they had seen the answer earlier.

Their clothes were stripped away until both of them were bare, and their positions were temporarily switched as Maleficent managed to roll him over. She kissed him passionately, her swollen lips suckling at his neck and gradually shifting down to his collarbones. She kissed his rippling scars. She trailed her fingers across his chest, and her perky nipples brushed against him while she kissed his belly. "Maleficent," he breathed. In a flash, he was on top again, and they were crushed against each other in passion. He slipped down her body and kissed her breasts. She mewled at him while he suckled first on the right nipple, then on the left. His hands squeezed at her hips.

She could feel unharnessed desire whispering in her ear. He was touching her; she had lost sense of where and when long ago, only that he was definitely touching her. He found her special place, and she gasped loudly. "I need…" Need. Need was not something about her. She did not need for anything. She wanted for many things, but she had no necessities. This, though, this was a necessity. Her body yearned in a way her mind knew not. "I need…Need you," she gasped. And he, with all the gentleness of a bird, with all the fierceness of a dragon, with all the loyalty of a dog, with all the passion of a man, gave her what she needed. They rolled and tossed into each other in the throes of pleasure and desire, until they lay together, panting hard with sweat running off of their bodies.

He brushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear. "Beautiful," he whispered.

"You think so?"

"I know so." He kissed her forehead. Her favorite and least favorite three words left his lips, whispered into her hair, and she returned them softly. There would be no worry tonight. Only the safe comfort of a raven's arms, and only the wish that she could somehow repair his shattered wings. It was several moments before his voice came again. "We will go check on Aurora soon?"

"You couldn't stop me," Maleficent replied. She traced the scars around his eyes with a slight smile. "But I trust that she can overthrow the government her father built for them. Any man who would dare to kill Martha is likely incompetent."

He leaned forward and nipped her earlobe. Her breath hitched. His arms closed the space between their nude bodies completely. His warm breaths fanned over her neck, his face buried in her hair. "I don't think any man is incompetent." She could feel the twitching nerves of his closed eyes against her skin. "Incompetence is equal to innocence. Those men… They don't know innocence. They just know pain, and how to cause it."

Her heart ached for a moment. She had promised them not to let the men take him, but they had taken him. They had left scars on his knees, on his belly, on his chest. She had no doubt those scars went deep to his mind. She curled her arms tightly around him. She wanted to touch him all over, to not have an inch of her that was not touching him. "I'm sorry." Too many of her promises had been broken for her to make another. She could not promise not to hurt him anymore. She would make no more promises, because she never kept them.

"It's not your fault." His voice was tired. "I love you." He chased away his fear, his memories, with her rosy honey scent.

She was silent for a while, and she wondered if he was asleep when she finally questioned him. "What would you give to have your wings back, Diaval?"

"I'd let those men have me for a year," he murmured. His lips were warm against the hollow of her neck. "But…" This was hard for him to admit, because it hurt, but he had no doubt that it was true. "I have enough. _You_ are enough, Maleficent, and you shouldn't do anything more to try to fix them. You owe me nothing."

She sighed. "I would do anything to let you have them back. Absolutely anything." He had fought for her wings. Now she should fight for his.

It was several more long minutes before he relaxed into her, comforted into sleep. She carefully extricated herself from their tangle of limbs and pulled on some discarded clothes (the shirt, she later discovered, was his, but it didn't matter). Then she left the cave, searching for a select group of plants that she knew grew nearby. She hated picking them, but did so without thought and rushed back to the cave. She would be done by the time Diaval awoke.

This potion was one that her father had forced her to memorize when she was a wee child. _"A cluster of daisies, a bit of dandelion, moss from the base of an oak tree, and a piece of the one you love. That is what will let you contact our spirits, and it will let you request one thing from them. It can only be brewed once."_ His words had been lined with warning. _"Our spirits are not always kind, and they may ask that one thing be exchanged for another. Always know the risk you're taking when you look into their skies for the first and only time." _

She would risk anything. Absolutely anything. She plucked a feather from his thick hair. _A piece of the one you love_. He stirred a bit, but she rubbed his back, and he didn't awaken. "I love you," she whispered. Then she padded back over to the pot where the potion was streaming and dropped in the bit of black plumage.

Fumes smarted up and she took a few steps back from the horrendous scent. "Who dares call upon the spirits of the fae?"

Her heart leaped up into her chest. She swallowed hard and peered into the pot again. "I am Maleficent of the moorland fair folk. I have come to make a request."

There were no faces in the pot. It was, in fact, filled with a steamy black liquid. "Make your request."

She gulped. "Diaval, a raven, has served me for many long, hard years. He has recently lost the ability to use his wings. My request is that you repair his wings so that he may fly once again." She stared into the burbling black goo.

"Healing is not something the spirits specialize in. But we can fulfill your request. For a price."

"Anything," she breathed.

"Your most prized possession."

She went still. She wasn't completely sure she had a most prized possession. There was Diaval, but she didn't own him. Her hair, her horns. She was not attached to material things. And… Her wings brushed her cheeks in a rustling of feathers. She couldn't give up her wings. She wouldn't.

"Do not try to lie to the spirits, dear. We have known you much, much longer than you have known yourself. But your request can be revoked."

"Revoked?" she repeated.

"Another exchange, of course. You can keep your most prized possession in exchange for the life of your servant."

Her breath stopped in her throat. She choked. She couldn't breathe, but she needed air. She couldn't give her wings, but she needed Diaval. She could save Diaval, but she needed her wings. "There's got to be another way."

"There isn't. Make your decision now, or we will make it for you." The voice was ethereal, surreal, almost not there.

Her voice choked up from her throat. The words that spilled from her throat were unbelievable. "Take my wings." She was going to be sick. "Take them." A pain ripped through her back, the pain of the ages, the pain of nearly two decades flashing hotly through her. She arched her back, trying to escape it, until the fire was gone and she was reduced to a dull ache.

"Maleficent. Maleficent." Diaval crawled to her, startled from his sleep by her shrieks. He peered into the pot, but it was empty and dry. What was happening? "Maleficent!" He grabbed her by the shoulders, trying to pull her upright. "What's wrong?"

She hadn't realized that she'd been screaming until her throat burned. "My wings," she croaked. "My wings."

He reached to touch them. But they weren't there. What was happening? Surely no attacker could have gotten past him and managed to hack her wings from her body! He didn't sleep that soundly! He touched her back. There were no ugly, feathery stumps as there used to be, instead just scars curled into the flesh. "Maleficent, tell me what happened."

She was breathing too hard to speak properly, instead the story flowing to him through broken, somewhat incoherent and definitely incohesive sentences. "I had to, I had to, my wings, they, you, wings, spirits, potion, I had to give them…"

He squeezed her waist tightly. "Maleficent. Hush." He pulled her closer to him and ran his fingers through her hair. She would tell him when she could—if she could. And if she couldn't, or didn't want to, then she wouldn't. After all, she was secretive, and he was not one to question her secrets or motives. He didn't dare try to tell her that it would all be okay, because it wouldn't, and they both knew it wouldn't be okay for a very, very long time.

She gave a few labored breaths before struggling to tell him the tale from the beginning. From the very beginning. It was then she told him of her promise—her promise when she had met him so long ago that no wrong would ever befall him, especially not from the hand of any human. She told him of her vow to protect him, to defend him in the ways that he would later defend her. And she told him of her potion, of the faerie spirits, of the decision she'd been forced into making to save his life. And then she sobbed into his chest. Sobbed because there was nothing else to do, nothing at all, and sobbed because he was whispering, "I would have rather died, I would rather have died than see this happen to you again."

When her tears were gone and her red-rimmed eyes were swollen almost shut, she rested her head on his chest. "You can fly now."

He didn't reply. He let his hands wander over her, trying to comfort her through his touch and murmured sweet-nothings. He cared not for his ability to fly. He cared for her, and she was hurt. Hurt on account of him, even. He wanted to kiss her, but didn't, instead cradling her close to him.

**"**You should fly."

"I do not wish to fly without you."

She glared up at him. "Dammit, Diaval, you go fly! You take your wings to the damn bank, because god knows that I can't!" She slammed her fist into the stone wall and muttered, "Ouch, dammit," under her breath.

"Mal—"

Yellow magic cut him off, his voice ending in a squawk. He tilted his head at her. Gods, she was hurting, she was hurting so badly and now she had taken away any ability he had to comfort her. He cawed at her and flew to her shoulder.

"Fly, Diaval! Leave me!" She tried to chase him away. He scarcely dodged her hand and landed on her horn. A tormented sigh left her chest, and she leaned her head against the wall. He began to preen her thick, dark hair with gentle tugs from his beak and claws. She reached and gently pulled him down into her lap. "Pretty bird," she whispered, petting his sleek, glossy plumage the way she used to do long ago when she perched on her throne. He had been there then. How could he love her? How could anyone see a side of someone that dark and that ugly and that hideous and still love them? She didn't know. Yellow magic curled around his form, and he was soon a man before her.

He didn't speak. "Why won't you fly away?" she whispered.

"I have no desire to leave you."

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

Their eyes battled for several minutes, one broken beyond repair, and the other aching and yearning to fix her. He touched her cheek. Gradually, he leaned in to kiss her. She let him. He pulled her close, gathered her crumpled form into his lap. She let him. Her willpower to resist was completely gone. Did she want to resist, even? Not particularly. His touch was a comfort. It was a thing of peace and love.

He rested his crown against hers. "I love you, Maleficent. I will never leave you. You could never chase me away. I'm going to stay with you until I die, and then I'll haunt you until you die." His breath warmed her cheeks. "I can't undo some bastard's actions. I can't undo your actions. But I will continue to be your wings until the end of our time."

She tilted her head upward slightly. There was less than an inch of space between their lips. "Thank you. For loving me. And for being there when no one else dared to near me. A life—my life—without you would be no life at all." She closed the space with her lips. "I love you, Diaval. More than anything." Her eyes swam. "More than my wings. Because you are my wings."

* * *

**A/N: There you have it! That was Protected. Cliche ending part, I know. And I know I left a lot of things unanswered. What becomes of Aurora? Does she reclaim her kingdom or find someone to do so? Will there ever be peace again? That is for you, the reader, to decide. "The best book is not the book that tells you what to think, but the book that makes you think." Brownie points to whoever knows who said that quote. **

**Thanks to everyone who has continued to read and support this story, short though it may be. Reviews are appreciated but not a necessity! I love you all!**

**Over and out, **

**The Silver Trumpet**


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